


Where the Wall Meets the Floor

by Portrait_of_a_Fool



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Blood, Graphic Imagery, M/M, Strong Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-12
Updated: 2013-11-12
Packaged: 2018-01-01 07:17:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1041953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Portrait_of_a_Fool/pseuds/Portrait_of_a_Fool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After John is taken while working on a number, it’s up to the others to find him. As they dig deeper, horrific details about John’s captor come to light and the nightmarish reality of what could happen to John sets in. With the clock running out, Harold realizes he isn’t ready to give him up yet, especially not this way. He refuses.</p><p> </p><p>  <strong>***This is a direct continuation of <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1034310">Closed Doors & Open Windows</a> by <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/lustmordred">Lustmordred</a>.***</strong></p>
            </blockquote>





	Where the Wall Meets the Floor

**Author's Note:**

> **PLEASE READ THE NOTES.**
> 
> This is Part Four of the series, “The Human Element” being written by [Lustmordred](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lustmordred) and yours truly. Because of the way this is being written—as interconnected stories, not actual collaborations on each piece—we are unable to link to installments any other way than in notes, so please bear with us.
> 
> Previous installments are as follows:
> 
> [Every Day Above Ground](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1005690) — [Lustmordred](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lustmordred)  
> [The Grit from Stars](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1013645) — Portrait_of_a_Fool  
> [Closed Doors & Open Windows](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1034310) — [Lustmordred](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lustmordred)
> 
> Please note that while it isn't absolutely necessary to read the first two pieces (though I think you should :P), it _is_ necessary to read [Closed Doors & Open Windows](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1034310) as this fic is a direct continuation of that one.  
>  _________________________________________

_“Eventually something you love is going to be taken away.”_

— Richard Siken

As with suicide, when it comes to homicide—attempted homicide at the moment—there are hesitation marks. That was phase one, back when John still had his shirt and coat on. The initial cuts had been the equivalent of foreplay for psychos, the sharp, double-edged blade in his captor’s hand cutting neat lines through his white shirt to lightly score the flesh beneath. He’d soon gotten tired of that and removed John’s clothes with a pair of heavy duty metal shears. He’d been incredibly neat about it all, cutting along the seams and pulling them off John like he was unwrapping a present. After that, the party really got started and they quickly moved past the hesitation marks part of the evening. Now, John is leaking from several lacerations deep enough to require stitches. The man who took him, the man he’s begun to think of as _Jack_ , wasn’t lying when he said he wanted to take his time.

John doesn’t know how long he’s been tied to the chair, but it hasn’t been long enough for his head to stop its insistent pounding, the sound of his heartbeat a tribal drum thumping away inside his skull so hard he can feel it in his teeth. The vision in his left eye is an out of focus mess, but he can see fine out of his right eye and he tries to count that as a plus. He doesn’t know what Jack hit him with, but whatever it was, it was heavy and hard. Not to mention, good old Jack hit him so hard it would be better put to say he _clobbered_ John. It’s a wonder he didn’t cause more damage, but that may be because John did have enough time to jerk back and away at least a bit before Jack connected. If he hadn’t, Jack may well have killed him right there on the sidewalk. John thinks if that had happened then Jack would’ve been soundly upset because _that_ wasn’t part of his plan at all; he hadn’t wanted to kill John there. Good for Jack that he’d managed not to. Good for John, too, he supposes, but honestly… he’s not feeling all that upbeat about it at the moment.

The upside, if there can be one here, is that he’s so mad he could eat sand and spit out glass. His anger is what’s keeping him conscious and he feeds on it, drawing strength from it as it streams through him. John’s anger also helps distract him from the pain. There are cuts all over his upper body; they follow the curve of each of his ribs, his clavicle and the bones in his arms. His skeleton is being carefully drawn out in dripping red wounds. Blood is a constant, clammy tickle-itch sliding across his skin where it oozes from each precise cut.

Jack works with the skill of a trained anatomist or at least someone with an (un)healthy interest in human anatomy. John keeps trying not to think too much about how and where he got his firsthand experience with this, but he knows anyway and now that he’s worked it out, it‘s irritatingly hard to ignore. It became clear after a short while and it’s left John with a thin sheet of ice under his skin since he figured it out.

At the moment, Jack is working on John’s scapulae, carving out bloody channels in the shape of his bones. He’s muttering to himself about how the chair wasn’t the best way to go with this, but it was short notice. John tunes him out and listens to the sound of the river rushing past the warehouse, swollen with the snowmelt and early spring rains. Wherever they are, they’re very close to the water’s edge.

John wants loose so he can drag Jack down to that dirty, frigid water and hold his head under its rushing current. He thinks he would welcome the stink of river mud and God knows what else as he held Jack’s head under the boisterous brown water. John doesn’t even think he’d mind his fingers turning blue and this early in the season, they would. Hell, he doesn’t think he’d care if he grew extra appendages or eyes from the polluted flow.

John takes a deep breath and holds it in as Jack makes a new incision. There’s the barely audible sound of John’s skin parting under the blade as he works. New, warm wetness joins the already cold mess that slicks his back and tickles its way down to his waist where some of it soaks into his shorts that Jack was kind enough to leave him in. Even more oozes beneath his waistband to seep into places where it’s downright uncomfortable. It makes John want to squirm, but he fights down the urge.

Above the damp river smell in the warehouse, the air is redolent with the scent of John’s blood and the smell of his keeper’s sweat. John can taste the heavy cream-copper-salt flavor of it in the back of his throat, the inside of his mouth. Not all of that blood-taste belongs to him though.

When Jack first began to cut his clothes off, he leaned in close to John. So close that John could have kissed him had he wanted to. He hadn’t wanted to, he’d wanted to bite him and he had. John caught the side of his neck in his teeth and latched on like something feral. He was hoping to hit the carotid artery if he could, although he knew it was a long shot. The pointed ends of the shears sinking into his outer thigh, right below his hip, had made him let go, but only when Jack twisted them.

John still hadn’t screamed, not even when Jack punched him in the face four times before he finally stopped. John knows that Jack is a sadist and there’s nothing like the sounds of people in pain to make a sadist happy. John will _not_ make Jack happy, even if it means he has to bite off his own tongue and swallow it.

“There, now you have wings,” Jack says. He touches one of the lines carved in John’s back with his bare fingertips with a sigh. He presses down and traces all of them, sliding his fingers through the red mess on John’s skin. John grits his teeth against the ache and bears it. “You have a lot of scars already. What happened to you?”

When John doesn’t answer him, Jack sighs again. “I wish you wouldn’t be so difficult, angel. Communication is the basis of any healthy relationship.” He presses down harder at the juncture where two cuts meet and John breathes out through his nose in a harsh exhalation. “Eventually, you’ll see things my way. You always do.”

Jack has been talking to him since he woke up and seems to love the sound of his own voice. Any other time, it would be a pleasant voice; it’s low and rumbling with a softly rasping undertone to it. It’s the kind of voice that could curl into someone’s ear and without ever seeing him, it would make them want him because of the picture his voice paints. The voice matches the face, too and that’s the real kicker. The man has a face that belongs on a magazine cover; he’s beautiful.

John’s first thought was incorrect, but his second hadn’t been. Anyone who looks like Jack has to work incredibly hard at going unnoticed, but he seems to have mastered the art of dimness. John sure as hell never noticed him, neither did Shaw and Fusco. Jack noticed them though, yes indeed and he’s been telling John _all_ about it for the last… eternity… or so that he’s held him here. John may not know much about Jack, but he does know there is a monster hiding behind Jack’s lovely face.

At first John had no idea who he was. After he’d eliminated the other male number they’d been watching, he was left with an enforcer for HR or the Russians. He’d considered Elias for a moment, but then discarded him because Elias _likes_ John and is even more fond of Finch, so he’s out. The CIA was also out because while they played dirty, they were never this _messy_.

After a while, he began to formulate a new theory, thanks in part to his Jack’s incessant talking. When the theory took shape and had real form, a thin chill of fear rippled through him. Jack is a wildcard, an axis-shifting variable, the thing none of them would’ve ever considered. He’s a serial killer. John would stake his not inconsiderable amount of money on that. Now he knows why The Machine sent them the three numbers—they were all potential victims of this man, but in the end, he chose John. Funny story though: he doesn’t feel the least bit lucky to’ve been picked.

Jack stands behind John, still as stone and breathing so slowly and carefully that John can barely hear him. He feels the tiny breeze of his exhalations ghosting over his head though when he leans down to sniff him with a sound almost like a soft, murmuring growl.

“When I saw you, I knew I had to have you,” he says. He takes another slow, deep breath. “You’re exactly my type. _Perfect_.”

“If you wanted to make friends, you went about it wrong,” John says. “You should’ve tried ‘hello,’ that works much better than kidnapping and torture.”

Jack laughs and kisses the top of his head, which makes John’s upper lip curl in quiet disgust. “I couldn’t decide, you see. I’ve always been like that, but those three—one of them was going to be it, my New York City debut. Then _you_ came along, so interested in watching me and I knew, I just _knew_ , that you were the one.”

“Gee, thanks. I can’t really say I’m flattered though,” John says.

He breathes in deeply, feels the lips of the wounds over his ribs expand with the inhalation and thinks of fish gills. The way the rent flesh strains against the movement causes more blood to slip down his skin, adding another coat of bright red shellac that will dry to a black-red finish. John knows that this much blood will still be shiny even when it’s dry, making him look like he’s partially covered in some macabre carapace.

“Oh, but you should be flattered,” Jack says. “You _should_ be. I improvised for you. I never do that, never, _ever_. For you though… God…” He breaks off with a laugh as he strokes one of his bloody hands over John’s hair. “For you, I _had_ to do it. I argued with myself about it all day yesterday, but when I woke up this morning my mind was made up. You are _so_ special.”

“You’re sick,” John says.

“That’s what they all say,” Jack says with a huff.

John doesn’t need to see him to know he is rolling his eyes heavenward in tired resignation.

“Maybe you should listen then,” John says.

Jack laughs again, the sound clear as a bell, hearty and as pleasant as everything else about him. At least it’s that way on the surface, but beneath that charming, joyful sound is an underground river of lunatic laughter bubbling away.

Jack grabs John’s left shoulder and his thumb slips into the cut at the top curve, the nail catching on the lip as he swings around to face him. John listens to the sounds of his shoes sliding through his blood where it is puddled on the floor. Crouching in front of him, face just out reach of John’s teeth or a head butt, Jack smiles at him. John can’t tell if his eyes are blue or green in this light, it’s so bad in the warehouse and his vision isn’t exactly cooperating. He can see the way what light there is shines through his eyelashes and sends shadows sliding down his cheeks like watery ink.

“Maybe you should _shut up_ ,” Jack snaps through his perfectly white teeth. “Clearly you don’t understand.”

“What can I say? I’m just that stupid,” John says.

“You are, yes, _yes_ , you are,” Jack says. “You’re _all_ stupid, every single one of you because none of you _get it_.”

John doesn’t care about getting _it_ , all he cares about is making it out of this warehouse in one piece if he can. He’s also highly invested in having some special alone time with Mr. Jack here so he can repay him for his hospitality.

“How many people have you killed, Jack?” John asks.

Jack smiles again. “More than you, I bet.” He laughs like he’s just said something funny and he probably thinks he has. He doesn’t know a single thing about John, that’s been clear from the get-go.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” John says with a smile. His spilt lips open up again to bleed and slick his mouth with red so rich and thick it looks like gloss. Jack sees something in John’s smile that he doesn’t like, John can tell because it’s the first time he’s looked a little uneasy.

He backs away from John and bounces lightly on his heels. Still crouched on the floor, he points the knife he’s been favoring for the last little while at him. “Liar, liar,” he says. It comes out as a grating sing-song.

“My pants aren’t on fire,” John says with another smile, one that shows his blood-smeared teeth.

He’s goading Jack a little bit. He can’t help himself. He _wants_ to piss him off. He wants him to make a mistake. John tries not to think about how this could potentially backfire on him.

Jack’s eyes narrow and the muscles in his jaws jump with tension. John’s gotten his wish, he’s made him mad because in his mind, he has been _challenged_. The truly disturbing thing about Jack is that he is what either him or Shaw may’ve looked like had their lives taken a couple of _incredibly_ wrong turns. The potential is there in Shaw, probably always has been and John’s wound up with some serious wires crossed over the years. Bad wires, but none of them are _this_ bad. Something went terribly awry with Jack’s synapses and they’re firing wrong on all cylinders. In that regard, John and Shaw are slightly different breeds. Shaw is a sociopath, John is a product of the environment in which he lived for so long, but Jack… Jack is a dyed-in-the-wool _psychopath_. John genuinely believes that he and Shaw, for all of their flaws, are still _good_. Jack, on the other hand, is rotten to his very core.

“Shut up! Stop making fun of me!” Jack screams. It’s abrupt, agitation erupting into rage so intense his face contorts, the mask slips. John catches a glimpse of the monster he knew was hiding beneath his beauty.

Spittle flecks the corners of Jack’s mouth and makes him look rabid. John thinks that’s fitting because he is and he needs to be put down. If John ever gets loose from this chair, he knows he will not humanely euthanize Jack. No, he thinks he’ll take his time and make it last and last.

The thought makes his smile turn sharper, more real. “Could you keep your voice down? I have an awful headache,” John says.

Jack snarls at him and says, “I just want someone to _play with_!”

John leans forward as far as the ropes binding him will allow and speaking through his teeth, says, “Well, I’m tired of this game now.”

He spits a wad of bloody saliva at Jack. It catches him on the cheek and John has half a second to think about what a lucky shot that was before Jack rushes him.

††††††††

It’s been two hours, eight minutes and three seconds since Harold heard John being taken away. He has everyone is out on this, but at the moment, they’re getting nowhere because they’re waiting on Harold to finish going through security footage. So, instead of working, they’re all standing around, skulking in the shadows and feeling useless if they feel anything at all like Harold does. Their hands are tied because they have no _leads_. The pressure is great this time, it all lies on Harold and his skills to find something—anything—that will help them locate John before it’s too late.

Carter got the footage from building cameras facing the sidewalk where John was attacked. Now it’s a matter of trying to track the movements of the car they found on another camera’s feed a block over. It’s a black, four-door Nissan Sentra; so utterly nondescript that it blends right in with all the other traffic streaming by on the streets. None of the cameras have resolution high enough for Finch to get a decent license plate number except for the cameras at traffic lights, but they only take pictures if a red light is run and their guy obeys all stoplights and traffic signs. The bastard.

Harold is usually so careful, wanting to move at a much slower, more thorough pace than Shaw and even John are. Right now though he wants to rush in and go off half-cocked with his metaphorical guns blazing and he _can’t_. Panic sits in his chest like a hideous toad and it’s all he can do to keep from choking on it. Harold thinks even if he did, he’d only manage to swallow it so he could vomit it up again and the cycle could begin anew.

When John’s trail went cold under Bear’s inquisitive snout thanks to their doer having a vehicle, Harold had suffered from the most frightening urge to just sit down and bawl. Part of it was out of fear that _it_ was happening again and part of it was out of nothing more than a puerile sense of frustration because yet again, he’d not known what to do. Which was ridiculous, the answer was an obvious one—he had to do what he _always_ did, but for some reason, this time he had thought the answer would be different. Surely John deserves something more grandiose than a small man in a large car tapping away at a keyboard while Samantha Shaw mutters curses in his ear.

“This is bullshit, Finch,” she says. “Tell me you’ve got _something_. I’m getting really tired of standing around with my thumb up my ass.”

“Let him work, Shaw,” Carter says. “He ain’t gonna get nothin’ done with you snarling at him every three minutes.”

“Are you fucking timing me, Carter?” Shaw asks.

“Yep,” Carter says.

“Whatever,” Shaw says.

“Ladies, _please_ ,” Finch says through his teeth.

Carter’s edgy and frustrated, Shaw wants her pound of flesh and it all boils down to the same thing: they want to get to John, get him back and make things _right_ in this little world they all cohabitate. Bear is lying on the backseat of the car, shifting anxiously, head on his paws and eyes wide open, waiting for his next command because even the dog knows something is not _right_. Fusco is the only one of them who seems calm, but the speed with which he arrived at the scene of John’s abduction belies that. Harold is thankful for his silence though. Harold understands where Shaw and Carter are coming from, does he ever and then some, but he _knows_ that for any of them to lose their cool right now is quite possibly the worst thing they could do.

“Sorry, Finch,” Carter says.

“Me, too, Detective,” Harold says as he scans through reel after reel of video footage. “Me, too.”

“Oh?” Carter says.

“ _Oh_ ,” Harold says right back.

“Huh,” Carter says. “Hate to say this now, but I gotta. _Good_.”

“Will you still feel that way if we’re too late, Detective?” Harold asks.

“Shut up, Finch,” Carter snaps at him.

Finch purses his lips and taps away at his keyboard with strokes that are a bit harder than necessary. He’s near the end of his rope when it comes to tolerating people telling _him_ to shut up.

“Finch,” Carter says.

There’s an apology in her voice and Harold forgives her, he does, but right now he doesn’t want to _hear_ it. “It’s fine, but please be quiet, I need to concentrate,” he says.

“Sounds like you two are speaking in code,” Shaw says.

“Perhaps we are,” Harold says.

“I was talking to Carter, not you,” Shaw says. “You, you need to type.”

“I am,” Harold says.

“Good,” Shaw says. “So, Carter, code. What is it?”

“Nothin’,” Carter says.

“My ass,” Shaw says. She’s quiet for a couple of minutes, considering, calculating and then she says, “Ah. He told you, didn’t he? Last night when he was at your place, he turned into a tell-all, I bet. Booze does that to some people.”

“Told me what?” Carter asks.

“You know damn well _what_ , don’t even try to be slick with me,” Shaw says. “But so you know, I knew first. Figured it out on my own.”

“Points to you, Miss Shaw,” Harold says. He pushes his glasses up on the bridge of his nose so hard he mashes them into his skin. The small pain is enough to make him focus better for a moment. He tries very hard not to think about what Shaw and Carter know about John and him because that is clearly what they’re talking about. What he really needs them both to do is, “Shut up, ladies, _please_. For the last time.”

Shaw makes a grumbling sound, but Carter stays quiet.

Barely five minutes pass before Fusco’s voice yelling, “Son of a bitch! I know this guy!” has Finch jumping and moving to yank his earpiece out before he manages to stop himself.

“What?” Carter and Shaw say at the same time.

“The guy,” Fusco says again. “ _The_ fuckin’ guy, the one that took John. I been staring at this piece of footage for the last… however the hell long… trying to see if I missed something and I did. Our guy, he’s the teacher’s neighbor… Lasko… Lassie… no, that’s really wrong… Lessen… Wait. No. _Lassen_. Nicholas fuckin’ Lassen. That’s him.”

“The guy with the Tupperware?” Shaw asks.

“Yep,” Fusco says. “One and the same. I’ll be damned. But wait… How’d he see John?”

“He must’ve been watching Don Parker, too,” Finch says as he begins to run a search for Nicholas Lassen.

The search doesn’t take long because there’s not much out there on Nicholas Lassen. It seems he’s only existed for the last five days as far as Harold can tell. It’s a good cover on the surface, but it doesn’t go any deeper than that either. There is a picture I.D. though and Harold counts his—their—blessings on that front. He can run a comparison facial recognition search against the image and anyone Don Parker may know.

“I think we may have something,” Harold says. “Apparently Nicholas Lassen is a cover, but facial recognition should be able to find something if he’s at all connected to our other two numbers.”

“It’s about fucking time,” Shaw says. “It’s cold out here and I need to move.”

“I offered you the comfort of my car, but you refused,” Harold says.

“I don’t like sitting on my ass,” Shaw says.

“So I gathered,” Harold says back.

The computer beeps at him and he finds a Daniel Lincoln listed as an evening intern for Don Parker’s news show. “Found him,” he says. “Daniel Lincoln. He’s working as an intern on Mr. Parker’s program.” Before he can say anything else, the laptop beeps again to let him know it’s found even more. “And he’s been working as a part-time gofer on Mr. Giovanni’s construction site.” Harold tip-taps at his keys some more and finds that those two aliases go no deeper than the very basic requirements of a background check and they’re all new—the oldest is seven days old.

“So, what’re we lookin’ at here?” Fusco says. “We still don’t know how the three of them are related and even better, what John has to do with _any_ of whatever else this guy’s been up to.”

“Yeah,” Shaw says. “What the fuck is this shit?”

“I’m with her,” Carter says.

“As am I,” Harold says. “Hold on, I’m broadening the search. Give me a moment.”

The computer works away and while it does, Finch goes back to scanning camera feeds for the black Sentra. He catches it making a left onto a side road and then he loses them again. John is a slumped, shadowy figure in the passenger seat.

The toad in his throat _ribbit_ s away and he swallows harshly. Harold should’ve just said he was sorry, that’s what John wanted from him. It was such a simple thing and he had refused to offer it up out of pride and a sense of rightness. He _wasn’t_ sorry, not then. He still thought he was _right_ , that no matter how much it hurt, it was for the best. He’d extended the only olive branch he knew how to given the circumstances and it hadn’t been enough. He should’ve known that, too, but he’d thought it may work. Therein lies the problem, however: Harold had _thought_.

 _You think too damn much,_ Nathan’s voice says in the back of his mind. He sounds tired and sad. _You always have._

Harold has to fight back the desire to tell him to hush, that he can’t listen to this right now.

 _Why don’t you try going with your_ feelings _once in a while?_ Nathan asks him. _You care about him, Harold, you know you do, so stop fighting it._

Harold can’t help the bitter scoffing sound he makes in the back of his throat at that little piece of wisdom. It’s been years since he heard Nathan’s voice, but his mind is dredging up a shockingly accurate facsimile of it. It sounds so real that Harold can’t stop the way the hair on the back of his neck prickles. He doesn’t know if showing his _feelings_ (Dear God, why?) would have done the trick, but an apology would’ve, of that he’s absolutely certain. He’s always found apologizing difficult, even when he is wrong and he _never_ says he’s sorry if he doesn’t mean it. Now, he’d give anything to have those few seconds back so he could say, _Yes_ when John asked him if he was apologizing.

Because he does care, yes, he does and very much. John has slipped inside his skin and made himself a nest there in that quiet way he has about him. It was _sneaky_ of him to do it without Harold being totally aware from the beginning and now it’s too late to stop it. All he’s left with now is the knowledge and the want to control the situation. When it comes to such matters, controlling the situation usually isn’t in the cards though. He can try all he wants to, but he’s never been able to flip his feelings on and off like a light switch when he has them this strongly. Now that he’s fallen in love with John, he cannot simply _stop_ loving him.

Harold jerks his head up so quickly it sends a sharp warning pain down the back of his neck and he hisses in a breath. His mouth forms the words, _Oh. Oh, no._ as he stares blankly out the windshield.

 _Yeah, welcome to the party, Harold,_ Nathan’s voice says. Harold hears his laughter in the back of his mind and his stomach twists. _It took you long enough to catch on._

It took him so long to figure it out because he didn’t _want_ to figure it out. He’s known for ages now that John is in love with him, but he was certain he was… safe… from that much. He was certain only because he wanted to be though. Harold knows he cares, he’s never lied to himself about that much of it, but he’s been lying to himself about the true weight of his _care_ for months now. 

_It’s not so bad, you know,_ Nathan says. _You remember it, don’t you?_

“Go away,” he says under his breath in a muttering whisper.

He remembers what love felt like with painfully vivid clarity, he remembers it in 3D and that’s the problem. When he had allowed love, it had been so sweet, so _perfect_ , even with its flaws. The part no one ever thinks about and what Finch knows so incredibly well is that it is devastating when it’s taken away or has to be let go. It leaves a husk in its wake, a million and one unspoken words, missed anniversaries and kisses under the damned mistletoe. He doesn’t care what the partitioned part of his consciousness that sounds like Nathan says, this is _awful_ and now he’s gone and ruined everything with John anyway. He may even lose it and if that happens, just like Nathan, just like Grace; he will _never get it back_.

John is one more unending list of might-have-beens that he’ll never have and they will keep him awake for years to come. He wanted distance and impartiality and this is what he’s ended up with—loss all over again without the chance to ever make it right. Love, as Harold has come to know it, is a terrible burden.

“ _No_ ,” Harold says under his breath, a choked whisper. He balls his hands into fists and fights away the tremble that wants to begin in them. He has the funniest feeling that he’s going to hyperventilate, but then Shaw sneezes in his ear and snaps him out of it.

“Finch? Say again, I didn’t catch you the first time,” Carter asks.

‘“Yeah, don’t mumble,” Shaw says.

“I will mumble if I want to,” Harold says and frowns when he realizes how incredibly childish that sounded. “I was talking to myself anyway. It’s part of my… process.”

“Loony,” Shaw says.

“You’re hardly in any position to be making such observations, Miss Shaw,” Harold says.

“Hey!” she says.

Harold says nothing in return and goes back to the never ending footage. A corner camera caught the car ten minutes after it had taken the left and this time, it was taking a right. Harold has no idea where this man, whatever his name is, was headed, but he seemed to be taking the longest, most roundabout way he could to get there. He’s smart. Either that or he’s paranoid. Maybe he’s both and that says a lot of things, none of which Harold is the least bit comforted by. He’s sticking to what equates to back roads for a city like New York and taking side streets. Surveillance is low on such streets, the light is poor and the traffic tends to be light. It may be longer, but ultimately, it’s also the path of least resistance. Harold is really starting to hate this man.

The computer beeps at him at last to let him know it’s found more details and Harold pulls up the window. The most recent and most used name of this man they’re hunting is Daniel Nicholas Parker Lacox. Taking that name as his real name, Harold begins a search on that. A few more keystrokes and Harold learns that he’s only moved to New York City in the last month and before that, he lived in Chicago. He was born in Bellingham, Washington and is 34 years old. He’s the sole heir to a quite substantial fortune.

He rattles off the information to Carter, Fusco and Shaw and gives them the address on Mr. Lacox’s real driver’s license.

“I’ve got it,” Fusco says. “I know the area. I can be there in twenty minutes.”

“What the hell am I supposed to do then?” Shaw asks.

“Wait until I have something else,” Finch says. “Detective Fusco clearly called dibs on this one.”

“Fuck,” Shaw says. “There’s an all night diner about a block from here, I’m going to get something to eat.”

“Get me a coffee,” Carter says.

“Me, too, please,” Finch says as he scans over Lacox’s financial records.

“Fine,” Shaw says. “I’ll be back in a few.”

“Thank you, Miss Shaw,” Finch says.

“Yeah, thanks,” Carter says.

As he reads on, Finch finds that Lacox has spent the last five years moving from one place to the next. Portland, San Francisco, Reno, Atlanta, Richmond, Baltimore, Chicago, Milwaukee… the list is extensive. Every four months or so, he packs up and relocates, his sizable income allowing him to do so with little to no fuss. He lives simply for a man of such means, but Finch finds it incredibly odd that he would move so frequently.

None of that information even begins to give him a clue as to why he took John or what he wants with him.

“Finch, I know you’re trying to work, but come on,” Carter says. “Please tell me you at least have an idea about why this man took John.”

Harold picks his head up and looks at her out of the passenger window of his car. She’s barely visible from the doorway she’s standing in. He sighs and wishes he could tell her something concrete, but he can’t. The fact is, he hasn’t the foggiest idea what this man wants with John.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t,” Finch says.

“Damnit,” Carter says. “This doesn’t make any _sense_. What the— Nevermind. I don’t get this though. If he’s not HR or CIA or… whatever other bogeymen you guys have pissed off… then… _Who the hell_ is _this guy?_ ”

“A very wealthy young man in his thirties,” Harold says. “Handsome. Two inches taller than John. He has dark brown hair and no tattoos. He moves a lot and I mean that— _a lot_ —at least every four months, give or take.”

“You think he may be on the run, hiding from somebody?” Carter asks.

“No,” Finch says. “He was watching our numbers, getting close to them for some reason we’ve yet to suss out. Whatever is going on here, I think Mr. Lacox is our perpetrator, not our victim.”

He closes his eyes when that reminds him of John’s number coming up yet again this morning. He’d tossed it the same as he always does, but this time maybe he should’ve paid attention. The parallels are starting to bang around in Harold’s mind like ghosts rattling chains. It’s a sickening reminder of when he closed the door Nathan had opened into The Machine right before his number appeared. Hubris. Always his hubris is getting him into trouble and Harold never seems to realize it until it’s too late.

“No,” he says through his teeth. “ _It_ will not happen.”

“You okay?” Carter asks him.

“Not exactly, no, but I’ll manage,” Finch says.

“Look, about earlier today, I’m sorry for going off on you like that,” she says.

“It’s fine,” Harold says. “In all honesty, I likely deserved it.”

“You did,” Carter says. “I’m still sorry though. If I had known—”

“Detective, if we _knew_ the future with such perfect clarity as that, I can assure you that there are a lot of things people wouldn’t—or would—say or do. Believe me,” he says.

“Yeah,” she says. “I know.”

“Mmm,” Finch says to acknowledge her. He’s digging deeper into Lacox now, checking every source he can think to check.

The program finds a pattern after a little while, one that when it presents its findings to Harold, it makes his blood run cold. The toad in his throat goes, _RIBBIT!_ and he covers his mouth, half convinced the sound very nearly actually escaped him.

“This is so very bad,” he says under his breath, horror making his skin feel like it’s on too tight and too loose at the same time. Louder, he says, “Detectives? Miss Shaw? We have a very big problem.”

“What is it?” Shaw asks. By the rhythm of her breathing, Finch can tell she’s walking back towards them where they’re all so uselessly staked out.

“Lacox… he’s… I _think_ he’s a…,” Harold takes a second to swallow and take a deep breath to try and calm himself.

“Finch, what is it?” Shaw demands. “Don’t freeze up again, man, we cannot do that shit right now, remember?”

“Yeah, come on, Finch, out with it,” Carter says.

“Yeah, what is it?” Fusco says.

“I was looking for _something_ that may explain _anything_ about Lacox and I found an… alarming… pattern to his movements,” Finch says. He takes another breath and starts searching police databases. It’s totally illegal to dig this deeply, but he doesn’t care and he’s careful; they’ll never know he was there to begin with. “I sincerely believe that this man is a serial killer.”

“Motherfucker! Seriously?!” Shaw barks in his ear. “Shit. Fuck. _Damn_.”

“Damnit,” Carter says.

“Aw, hell,” Fusco says. “That ain’t good.”

Finch says nothing, just does something incredibly stupid for him to do and opens one of the crime scene photos he’s found that match the serial M.O. He retches in their ears and Bear pops up from the backseat with a concerned whine to look at him.

“Oh,” he says. “This is awful. This is just… I’m sending the information to your phones now.”

Try as he might, sick as he feels, he can’t stop staring at the picture in front of him of a man with his chest cracked open. His heart was crammed into his mouth so brutally it dislocated his lower jaw. It juts askew with the bloody, insect larvae covered remains of his heart protruding from it like a martian flower.

††††††††

The knife is a glittering blur as Jack works, the blade cutting deep into the front of John’s shoulders and jittering arcs of pain follow the blade’s wake as it dances down his upper arms, all the way to his elbows. It slashes across John’s collar bone and down to his chest then back up again. Some of the cuts are deep, some aren’t much more than scratches because Jack’s not paying attention to what he’s doing. Not much anyway, only enough that John knows he isn’t ready to kill him yet, no matter how angry he may be. John is all too aware though that Jack is good, _damn good_ , with his knives. Even in his rage the skill, the talent even, is evident. This level of skill says that Jack has had _lots_ of practice with his blades. It’s an eerie, unsettling thing to recognize about Jack given what he is.

He also knows that Jack doesn’t like being told to fuck off because that’s how he’s ended up with Jack carving away at him like an Easter ham now. The first time was because John spit on him, but even then, Jack had controlled himself. He’d only cut deeper, with slower deliberation that had left John’s head swimming from the waves of pain crashing over him. His skeletal outline is almost complete now because of the spitting incident. Jack says he’ll finish the rest after he’s dead. He knows exactly how to cut though—he gets the max amount of blood without even coming near _killing_ John by making him prematurely bleed out.

John is bleeding more than enough though, especially now that he’s gone and made Jack mad again. John may well die here, but he’ll be damned if he’s going to die quietly or complacently, which is why he can’t bring himself to quit poking at Jack. Maybe he shouldn’t keep doing this, on some level, John _knows_ he shouldn’t, but he’d honestly rather goad Jack into going off the script of whatever psycho bullshit is swimming around in his head than wait for him to do what he usually does. He’s already carved the X over John’s heart—the place where the treasure lies in this map of blood he’s made John into. Cutting John’s heart out is his final act—the last one John will be alive for, at least for part of it—and he does not want to give him the pleasure of having what he wants here.

As he cuts him, working in a sloppy crosshatch pattern down the left side of John’s belly now, Jack is panting and saying, “I only wanted someone to play with,” over and over like it’s a chant. Like if he says it enough, John will suddenly understand his insanity and give a flying fuck about what Jack wants. He closes his eyes and pulls away inside of himself the best he can while he waits for this part of the storm to be over.

Jack finally stops slashing at him like some internal switch has been flipped back into the _off_ position where it usually resides. He yanks his hand back and stumbles away a couple of steps, sweating and out of breath. He blinks rapidly and shakes his head then looks at John. His maybe-blue, maybe-green eyes are wide and stunned looking, like a man who’s just woken from a bizarre dream.

“See what you made me do?” Jack says. He actually sounds horrified as he points at John. Blood drips from the knife and John looks at it glittering like tiny, dark garnets in the dingy light instead of looking at Jack. “You made me make a mess. This is all your fault. I don’t _make messes_! I don’t. I _improvised_ for you and this is how you repay me. Are you trying to _destroy_ me?!”

John translates Jack’s crazy talk the best he can: _I am careful and I plan what I’m going to do. Impulsivity is something I try very hard to avoid, but I_ wanted _you. Then you made me mad and messed up my pattern because every cut has its place. Now it doesn’t look right anymore. This upsets me greatly._

John smiles despite the agony he’s in and says, “Oops.”

Jack makes some inarticulate sound that’s barely human and claps his hands over his ears. He begins marching back and forth, boot heels thumping on the old concrete floor in a staccato rhythm. Then he stops so suddenly he sways in place.

“You’ve been very bad, angel,” Jack says as he comes to stand in front of John. “ _Very bad._ Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

John does not. He only tilts his head back to look right into Jack’s eyes and smirks.

“Okay then, if you won’t repent that’s fine. _Fine!_ ” Jack breaks off after that outburst and takes a couple of breaths. His face relaxes, goes slack almost and the glittering light in his eyes winks out. He’s a hollow man staring down at John now and the complete shift is chilling, even to him.

Jack nods and then says, “I’m just going to leave you to think about your behavior for a little while.”

He starts to walk away and then spins on his heel and comes back. “Here, hold this,” he says.

He slams the knife down into the top of John’s left thigh. It doesn’t go in far enough to really be serious, but it won’t fall out either because it’s neatly lodged in the muscle. John grunts in pain and breathes harshly through his nose as it burns and scratches its way up to his brain where it ping-pongs around with all the other pain signals. The upside to this much pain stimuli is that after a while, John will cease to feel it at all. He’s hoping that time will come very soon.

Jack whirls away and disappears back into the shadows where John can no longer see him. John has no doubt Jack is watching him, but he doesn’t care right now, all he cares about is that he isn’t looming over him or slowly cutting him to ribbons. His head is swimming and he hurts all over as he closes his eyes, giving himself one moment of rest.

Only Harold heard what happened, but he won’t think to look for a serial killer. John’s worried Harold and the others—he has no doubt Harold called everyone he could think of—won’t look in the right place. Sure, they’ll review security camera footage, they’ll see what happened and the direction Jack dragged him off, but then what? They’ll think the same thing John did: HR or the Russians, they may even think it’s the CIA or Elias. They won’t think about a joker in the deck. They won’t think about _Jack_. John tries to resign himself to the very real possibility that they won’t find him in time. He believes in them all, in their more than capable abilities and considerable talents, but this may prove to be beyond all of them. Even Harold with his Argus eyes.

He’s already thought that he may die here, but he keeps telling himself _not yet_. Despite the way he’s goading Jack, he has to hold onto something, even if doing so has never gotten him anything but heartache and disappointment. John works hard at believing that _this_ time, things will be different. Carter, Fusco and Shaw aren’t just his coworkers, they’re his _friends_ and John is no longer a mere pawn in some international game of chess. He’s a real person to all of them.

Then there’s Harold who does care, he said that much and John knows— _knows_ —he wouldn’t leave him to die somewhere. None of them would, but especially not Harold. He’d hack satellite feeds to try and find one of them if that’s what it took. At least John thinks so; _hopes_ so.

John takes a deep breath and holds onto the smell of his own blood. He lets it remind him again that he’s still alive.

He’s lost a lot of blood and is drifting in and out of consciousness and something that isn’t quite unconsciousness, but isn’t awareness either. While John waits for the next round to begin, his mind wanders around in circles, but they all lead back to Harold. He should’ve forgiven him because even though Harold hadn’t apologized, had in fact denied he was even attempting an apology, his contrition had been genuine. The want to forgive him had been there, a cord around John’s heart that practically demanded he accept Harold’s non-apology for what it wanted to be. If he had done it though then it would’ve set a precedent from there on out.

Knowing that doesn’t make John wish he had at least said he forgave him any less. To have forgiven him didn’t have to mean he took Harold back, only that he accepted the apology he wouldn’t actually voice. He didn’t even have to _mean_ it, he could’ve still said it. That and he really does think Harold is—and is not—sorry. Mostly though, he is _not_ sorry because to Harold, what he’s doing—everything at arm’s length, sneaking away in the night, keeping himself and all things _about_ himself that truly matter out of John’s reach—is for the best.

With his head bowed, chin resting on his bloody chest, John smirks and thinks, _See? I know that, too, Harold_. He’s got a lot of Harold’s numbers, in fact, but not the one that truly counts to him. The one that would let him know his love is a love that is returned in full.

In the darkness behind his eyelids, John sucks in a breath that is full of pain and surprise. He’s known, on some level, all this time, but only now in this cold and dark place have the words finally presented themselves to him so nakedly. Carter knows, that’s what she meant when she said, _I think you know why._ Shaw knows, too, has known longer than even Carter has. It’s why she asked him, _You sure that’s such a good idea?_ At the time, John had thought she was only referring to the fact he and Harold were sleeping together. 

_Harold_ knows and that’s the part that feels like a kick in the teeth. _I’ve been aware of your… feelings toward me for a while now._

Every last one of them, except maybe Fusco and Zoe—the latter of which he’s not too sure about—knew before John himself did. Oh, but he has known though, hasn’t he? He’s known it since the rooftop _at least_. The catch-stutter in his heartbeat hadn’t been all fear, at least not for himself. He’d looked down at Finch’s hamster fluff of brown hair blowing in the sharp wind and had felt his heart simultaneously knit itself whole again and threaten to crack like a piece of flawed crystal.

He had thought they were both going to die on that rooftop and the idea had hurt so badly. John hadn’t hurt for himself, but for Finch. John resigned himself to his own death years ago, but after Finch found him, he’d slowly begun to want to live again. The acceptance of his own eventual and likely messy end never really left, but it became something for later, for _further down the road_ ; it was no longer a part of John’s _here and now_. Finch had brought him back to life and before then, John had been a walking corpse, not much better than a zombie. It was in there, somewhere along the way in his new life that John fell in love with him. The culmination of that feeling had occurred on the rooftop, but now that he’s really looking at it, John can see that it started well before that night. 

Until now John has been aware that he _loves_ Harold, but he’s never quite tuned in to the fact he is _in_ love with him. If he hadn’t known something though then he wouldn’t have kissed Harold that night in his apartment. For him to only fully realize it now though is some cruel cosmic joke. Slowly bleeding to death while tied to a chair is the worst place in the world for an epiphany to strike, especially one of this magnitude. Being totally aware of Finch knowing he’s in love with him actually pisses him off though, makes him a bit more reluctant to offer up his silent forgiveness.

John gives it anyway, letting it swim around in his mind because he thinks he is going to die here and he won’t do it without at least thinking, _I forgive you, Harold_. There’s no real point in it because Harold will never know, but John hopes that maybe, somehow, Harold will be able to sense it. The thought makes him laugh as soon as it is formed, the sound a broken rasp that cracks in his dry throat. It’s such a bullshit thought for him to have and John is not prone to bullshit thoughts, not in the slightest. He tosses it away then and lifts his head because somewhere in the darkness comes the soft sound of footsteps.

_Jack’s back._

The thought is a drawn out, whispered sing-song that sounds a lot like Kara’s voice; mad as a hatter and filled with delighted hatred.

John opens his eyes and meets Jack’s as he steps into the nasty yellow-orange puddle of flickering light. He’s got a new knife in his hand and a feverish lantern glow burning in his eyes.

“Come on then,” John says with a smile.

Jack returns the smile and moves in closer, but stops just shy of the chair and rakes his hand through his hair. “I want to, you don’t know how bad, but you’re such a mess. I…” Jack looks away and lets out a breath. “I need a break, this is too much. I mean, _look at you_. It’s not right. Not. _Right_. I have to figure out how to fix this and I cannot think in here. I can’t. It’s too loud.”

Aside from the river and the sound of his blood dripping on the floor, it’s deathly silent in the warehouse. John wonders if the noise is in Jack’s head because he damn sure doesn’t hear anything that could be termed _loud_. Even the river’s sound is muted.

“I’ll be back in a little while,” Jack says after a minute. He gets down on his knees in front of John and slides his hands up his bloody thighs, fingers lightly playing with the blade of the knife where it pokes out of the left one. He’s twisting it slightly, like he’s trying to corkscrew it in and John grunts before he can help himself. Jack peers up into his face and smiles at him. “You just hang tight, okay? I’ll fix this, I promise. You’ll see.”

“Oh, goody,” John says.

“Shut up!” Jack screams at him. The sound reverberates off the corrugated metal of the warehouse’s walls. He springs to his feet and stalks away from John again, pacing just outside the ring of light from the single overhead bulb. “Why are you doing this? _FUCK!_ I adore you and you only torture me.”

John thinks that’s pretty funny, Jack saying that he is the one doing the torturing here. Given half a chance, he’d be happy to make his statement into prophecy, but as it stands, things are the exact opposite of what Jack is saying. Before John can say anything in that vein, Jack skulks away, the sounds of his boots on the concrete fading into the distance. John strains his eyes to try and see him and only sees his outline when he opens a door that seems to be miles away. Light from a security lamp falls into the rectangle and John feels a yank in his abdomen, trying to tug him towards it. Towards freedom and the promise of continued survival.

Then the door slams shut with a metallic _clang!_ and John is left with nothing but the dirty light to coat him. His skin looks black in this light, shiny and wet and he sighs. No matter what his resolve and no matter how good with his knives and cuts Jack is, his last fit really did John in. On the verge of passing out, he closes his eyes and tries to work at the knots binding his wrists. His strength is failing him, but he still keeps trying even though he’s not entirely sure he’s even near to accomplishing anything. Thinking is incredibly hard to do right now, but he hopes he is.

John wonders if he will miss Harold in the blackness that’s surely awaiting him. He thinks if it’s possible then he will do his best to hold onto him.

††††††††

More digging led Harold to several properties owned by Nicholas Lacox under a variety of aliases. He started purchasing them before ever moving to the city and they spread out around the area in a roughly crescent shape that Harold isn’t sure is intentional or not. He owns everything from a penthouse on the Upper East Side to having a lease on an old tenement building. There are at least eight more buildings in between and they’ve had to split up, each one keeping in touch via the open com line. Usually they disconnect the calls when they’re working unless something comes up, but tonight none of them have done so, each acting as a link to the other one and no one wanting to take the time to dial back in if they do find something.

“This storage unit is empty,” Shaw says. “As in totally empty, not even a scrap of fucking paper.”

“Same for the one I just left,” Fusco says.

“Maybe he was saving them for later,” Harold says with a moue of distaste.

He can’t imagine someone like Lacox keeping the same room for all of his doings, eventually people would notice and get suspicious if he started spending too much time at any one location aside from a residence. Even in a residence, a parade of people going in and never coming out again would—presumably—also draw suspicion. From what he’s found, if Lacox is who—what—Finch thinks he is then he likes taking his time. He carves his victims up like living anatomy dummies before he cuts their hearts out only to stuff them into their mouths. _Eat your heart out_ , indeed. Harold shudders and wipes his sweaty palms on the thighs of his trousers as the first image he saw pops up in his mind’s eye, a vile and sad reminder of what they will have left if they don’t hurry up and find John.

“The house is clear,” Carter says. “There’s some crazy, _crazy_ crap down in the basement though.” She huffs out a frustrated breath. “Where the hell is this guy?”

“I have no idea,” Harold says.

He lost the Sentra on security cameras after it made a loop that would have taken them towards Times Square, assuming Lacox didn’t make another turn. He was driving in an elaborate loop-de-loop, it had seemed. Perhaps then he had still been trying to make up his mind on where to go. John’s slumped, shadowy form in the passenger seat keeps coming back to mock Harold, to tell him he wasn’t quick enough, wasn’t good enough to figure it out or find a pattern.

“I’m heading to the tenement building,” Shaw says.

“I’ll take the old bodega,” Fusco says.

“I’ll check out the penthouse,” Carter says.

Finch checks the list of properties he has on the laptop monitor, a strikethrough going through the ones they’ve already searched. He studies the addresses and chooses the one closest to where he is currently.

“I’ll take the warehouse by the river,” he says.

“Okay,” the other three say at the same time.

It’s interesting how well they all work together, especially since they’re seldom even in the same room together. Harold and John have chosen their assets—allies—incredibly well. It should make Harold feel proud, but right now he’s only interested in not choking on the toad in his chest.

He pulls onto the street, mostly deserted this late at night and heads towards the warehouse. In his mind, Liszt’s “Totentanz” plays on a loop, the most ominous earworm in the world. It has been there since he looked at the awful crime scene photograph. Lacox, he learned has a type and favors both men and women. He likes blonde women and dark haired men. Dark haired men with light eyes, athletic builds and slightly above average heights. Men a lot like John. Looking at the before pictures of Lacox’s victims—before their cruel deaths, that is—the resemblance had become dreadfully obvious. Obvious enough that Finch had nearly hyperventilated again. It was evident in Don Parker and Robert Giovanni as well. Lacox’s female type was clear with their depressed alcoholic teacher, 

Finch focuses on the road in front of him to try and tune out everything else. When Bear pokes his head between the seats with an inquiring whine, he reaches over and scratches the dog’s head. They’re all potentially walking into an incredibly violent, highly unpredictable situation and all that Harold has for back up is the dog. Bear is more than capable of effectively subduing people, but he doesn’t like the idea of setting the dog—his dog… no, _their_ dog—on a knife-wielding madman though. It’s all he’s got though and John, he thinks, is worth the risk. He can’t let John go, not now, not yet. He _won’t_.

When he pulls into the weed-strangled parking lot of the old warehouse, Harold kills the car’s engine and lets the others know he has arrived. Everyone else, save Shaw, is at their declared locations as well and Shaw’s ETA is about five minutes out, so she’s close.

He sits and listens to the cooling tick-tick-tick of the engine and stares at the old building. It’s rusted, but is otherwise holding up well, solidly. It looks foreboding and haunted in the bad light from the one security lamp outside its front door. Around the back will be the larger loading bay doors, but what Harold is looking at is the old employee entrance. The door, he realizes, is new and heavy looking. He pats his coat pockets to make sure his lock picks are where he’s taken to keeping them most of the time. He is relieved to find them resting securely in their little case.

With a heavy sigh, Harold gets out of the car and opens the backdoor to let Bear out. Leash in hand, he hobbles resolutely towards that heavy door, cutting a swathe through the damp mist that’s curling off the river where it roars past the warehouse.

At the door, Finch takes a deep breath and tries the knob, finds it locked and takes out the picks. Bear sits at his feet, nose working and ears pricked up in attention. He’s on guard and ready, as though he senses the seriousness of this situation and is ready to do his part if called on.

“Good dog,” Harold says as he works at the lock. He’s gotten much better at picking locks, John’s been giving him lessons on and off for a while now and Harold is an apt pupil. He hears the click that tells him he’s been successful and with another deep breath, he slowly opens the heavy door, appalled at the sheer weight of the thing.

Stepping into the warehouse is disorienting, it’s far darker inside than it is outside and he has to blink rapidly to focus his eyes in this light. There’s one dirty, low wattage bulb burning and as he focuses on it, he hears a slow _drip-drip-drip_ , a lazily leaking pipe or old faucet perhaps. Then he sees the figure slumped beneath the light and forgets about the sound.

The toad in his chest goes, _Ribbit. Ribbit! RIBBIT!_ at the sight.

The light is awful and John looks like he’s covered in shiny black paint. Harold has the sickest feeling that it isn’t paint though. He moves towards John as quickly as he can, bad leg making a scuffing, dragging sound on the cracked concrete floor, Bear’s toenails clicking along as back up music. Once he’s close enough to really _see_ , Harold reels and his breath catches in his throat.

“I found him,” he says into the earpiece. “At the warehouse, he’s here. Oh… Oh, God.” There’s a chorus of anxious questions, a flurry of loud inquiries and Harold barely hears any of them. “All of you, get here as fast as you can. _Now_.”

He disconnects then without thinking about it as his mind reels. The wet copper reek of blood fills his nostrils as he shakes John with trembling hands. “John! John, wake up! Please!”

John stirs under his hands—his bloody hands, Harold realizes all too belatedly and nearly faints when he does—and says, “Harold. What are you doing here?”

Harold swallows as his gorge rises, but manages to get out in a mostly normal tone of voice, “At the moment, I am attempting to rescue you.” He tells himself not to panic, to hold it together. He can’t let it all go right now, not with so much depending on him keeping his head.

Harold lowers himself to the floor and makes a moaning sound in the back of his throat when cold wetness soaks into the legs of his wool pants. Blood. John’s blood. It’s all over the floor and now it’s staining his pants and Harold wants to vomit, he wants to pass out, but he can’t. If he does, he’ll be signed both of their death certificates for them because the others are too far away to be here anytime soon.

“I’m glad someone came,” John says. “But you should’ve stayed away, it’s not safe for you here, Harold. If he comes back…” He lets out a heavy breath and swallows. “I can’t protect you like this.”

“It’s fine, Mr. Reese,” Harold says as he works at the rope binding John’s wrists. He’s breathing through his mouth, trying not to suck up the odor of John’s blood that hangs so heavily in the air around them. “These knots though… I can’t untie them.”

“Then cut them,” John says.

“With what?” Harold asks.

“There’s a knife in my leg. See it?” John says.

“No,” Harold says, aghast at the idea when he finally notices the knife protruding from John’s thigh like a metallic growth.

“ _Yes_ ,” John says. He turns his head to look at him and Harold moans again. His poor face is a mess, bruised and swollen, bloody as the rest of him. “We don’t have time for this, Harold. Use it to cut the ropes.”

Harold licks his lips and shakes his head at the waves of dizziness threatening to swallow him. His vision goes grey at the edges and John says, “Don’t you _dare_ faint on me. Not now.”

“I’m not,” Harold says. His voice comes out in a breathless wheeze even as he lifts his shaking hand to touch the knife handle.

“Do it,” John says through gritted teeth. “I really don’t want to die here.”

“I don’t want you to die here either,” Harold says slowly, speaking as evenly as he can as he wraps his fingers around the handle. “I don’t know if—”

“Do it,” John says, his rough, cracking voice rasping even more with urgency. “We don’t have _time_ for anything else. Listen to me. I’ll be okay.”

Harold wants to point out that he is the farthest from okay he’s been since the night Snow had him shot, but he doesn’t. Instead, he steels himself and tightens his grip on the knife. “I am so sorry,” he says.

“I forgive you,” John says. “Now _do it_.”

Harold squeezes his eyes closed and gives a sharp upwards tug on the knife. He feels it come free and listens to John’s pained intake of breath. Then he opens his eyes again and tries not to see the blood smeared on the blade, how it glitters like liquid rubies. He starts sawing away at the ropes binding John’s wrists first and because the blade is sharp, he’s got them cut in only few seconds. He gets to work on John’s ankles next while John carefully flexes his fingers to get the blood circulating again. That he’s even able to move at all is a miracle and Harold is once again reminded of John’s resilience. He’s weak though, his hands are shaking and his breathing is ragged. He’s lost a lot of blood, the proof of that is soaked permanently into Harold’s pants.

When he’s done with John’s ankles he has to use the chair to lever himself back up. It’s painful, but he can’t be concerned with his own comfort right now. “Can you walk?” he asks.

“I think so,” John says. He gives his head a rough shake. “Where’re the others?”

“They’re on their way,” Harold says as he loops an arm around John’s bloody waist when he lurches up from the chair and nearly topples over onto his face. “Until then, I’m afraid you’re stuck with me and Bear.”

John smiles even though it pains him and says, “Get that knife.”

“What? Why?” Harold asks.

“So I can stab the son of a bitch if he comes back before we make it out of here,” John says. He’s still smiling and Harold can’t help but find that the slightest bit eerie.

“John,” Harold says. “You’re hardly in any condition to _stab_ anyone.”

“I don’t know, I think I could find a second wind for Jack,” John says.

Harold bends down to get the knife off the floor, in spite of his misgivings. John sways slightly in place while he does. “Jack?” he asks as he hands John the knife.

“The guy,” John says as they start moving again.

“His name is Daniel Nicholas Parker Lacox,” Harold says.

John considers that for a moment then says, “I think I like Jack better.”

They’re halfway across the warehouse, headed for the open door, when headlights fill the parking lot. “Oh dear,” Harold says.

“Get behind me,” John says. He even manages to push Harold back a bit as he half lurches in front of him.

“Move your fat ass, Fusco,” echoes across the parking lot a couple of seconds after two doors slam and Harold staggers he’s so relieved. He rights himself after only a second though and grabs John again.

“It’s only Miss Shaw and Detective Fusco,” Harold says.

John smiles faintly. “So I heard,” he says.

A moment later, Shaw bursts into the warehouse with her gun drawn, takes one look at them standing there and declares, “You look like shit run over twice, Reese.”

John laughs and nods then his knees buckle and Harold grabs onto him as tightly as he can to keep him from hitting the floor. “A little help, please!” he yells.

He holds John against him, fingers slipping in his blood and for a split second, he feels like he’s going to scream. The almost dead weight of John in his arms is like a nightmare coming true and in that awful second, Harold thinks he’s lost him. Then he realizes that John isn’t completely unconscious yet. The only thing keeping them both from collapsing onto the ground is that John still has enough of his wits about him to support some of his weight and keep it off Harold.

“Stay with me, John,” Harold says as Shaw and Fusco rush towards them. “Please, stay. _Please_.”

“Shh, Harold,” John mutters. His voice is badly slurred, making him sound like he’s drunk. “I’m right here.”

Then Shaw and Fusco are taking his weight off of Finch, Fusco telling John, “It’s all right, Wonder Boy, we’ve gotcha.”

John laughs softly and tries to lift his head, but he can’t manage it, so he focuses all of his remaining strength and attention on helping them move him towards the door—towards _life_ —the best he can. He drifts in and out, but always listens for the sound of Finch’s distinctive stride coming along behind them.

The last thing he sees as they load him into the back of Harold’s car, Shaw sliding in beside him, is Harold’s wan, terrified face right before he shuts the door. John wants to tell him everything’s going to be fine now, he may look like hell, but they made it in time. He’s not going to die on them—on Harold—not now, not today.

Before he can do that, blackness swallows his vision and his thoughts.

††††††††

That first night John had come to again in Dr. Madani’s office while he was in the process of stitching up the X carved into his chest. There’d been an IV line pumping blood into him and a turn of his head had shown him Harold, pale and greyish, sweating like a pig as he held a cotton ball in the crook of his elbow. He’d given John a wobbly smile and John had tried to smile back to reassure him that he was going to make it, that it would all be fine, but he’d passed out again before he could manage it.

The next time he’d woken up, he was in one of their safe houses and Shaw was standing next to the bed, peering down at him like he was a bizarre museum piece. She’d told him he looked like a mummy then asked if he was hungry. All John had been able to do was laugh tiredly before he drifted back into a more natural sleep.

The watch over him went on for three days during which he had not once set eyes on Harold. Carter told him he came by, but never stayed for very long; he was trying to track down Lacox so he could contact the authorities. They’ve put a bulletin out on him, he’s wanted in every state now, but so far, he’s stayed off the grid after John escaped from him. When he told Carter to pass word on to Finch that if he found Lacox—Jack, he will always be _Jack_ to John—to tell him, not the authorities, she’d of course protested. She’d said he may hurt more innocent people if they held off, but John had been adamant.

 _He’s_ mine, _Carter, understand?_ John had said. Carter had nodded and said she’d tell Finch.

This morning, John sneaked out on Fusco’s watch before ever finding out if Finch received the message. He’s texted everyone to let them know he’s all right, it’s the least he can do, but he had to get the hell out of the safe house. He wanted _his_ home and hadn’t been able to take one minute more of the safe house.

Now, John is at home where he wants to be, slightly muzzy headed from painkillers and gingerly patting himself dry after bathing the best he can—not much more than a glorified sponge bath, really. While he waits for his wounds to dry out before he re-bandages them, he goes to his bed and the nest he’s made himself there. He’s got pillows stacked so they support his lower back and keep his shoulders from touching anything. He’s got another small, slightly U shaped pillow meant to be used on airplanes or long car rides to cradle his head and neck at least a little bit. It keeps his shoulders bowed forward at an angle that could hardly be called comfortable, but it’s serviceable and far better than putting any weight on his cut shoulders. Or any other part of his body, really.

He’s a mangled mess, none of the cuts were life threateningly deep, as he had thought, but they’re more than deep enough that they will leave him with their scars for the rest of his life. The black threads of stitches bristle from his body like spiky black fungus. Add to the mess his bruised up face and he’s a walking disaster area. His slow, careful walk home had gotten him more than a few gawping stares. Even John, used to wounds as he is, finds his current appearance grisly, to say the least. He won’t ever forget where his radius and ulna are now though.

The thought makes him curl his lip back in a silent snarl as he closes his eyes. He’s been so tired lately, weak and shaky from the blood loss and sleeping every chance he can get. The painkillers aren’t helping with his wakefulness either, but now that he’s safe, he’s taking them because _damn_ does he ever hurt. He doesn’t mean to doze off this time, but he does it sure as hell and the next time he wakes up is to the sound of his front door banging open.

He jerks fully upright with a wince as all of his stitches pull and blinks stupidly. There is an obnoxiously large bouquet of flowers wearing Harold’s pants and shoes making its slow way into the apartment. Bear bounds ahead, leash trailing along the floor and tail wagging as he launches himself at the bed and lays down with his head by John’s knee. The dog’s breath ruffles the stitches that poke up ever so slightly from the neat outline of his patella, but he ignores it.

“Harold, what are you doing?” John asks when his eye and part of his cheek pokes around the bright orange blossom of a tiger lily.

“Currently, I am trying not to topple over backwards,” Harold says as he makes his way towards the shelves that line the wall of windows at the front of the apartment. “I took all of the water out and this still weighs entirely too much for a bunch of flowers.”

“I think most of the weight may be coming from the crystal vase,” John says. He’s no expert on crystal by any means, but the thing looks like it probably cost Harold a small fortune and it no doubt did.

“Looks can be deceiving, although yes, the vase is likely significantly contributing to the weightiness of it,” Harold says dryly.

He’s no doubt overdone it with the bouquet, but that’s what he does. When his gifts aren’t practical in the extreme, they lean in the exact opposite direction. He’s glad he decided against getting _two_ bouquets though. That may’ve killed him.

“What are you doing here?” John asks as he carefully twists around to sit on the side of the bed.

“Well, since your daring escape from the safe house this morning and your text letting us know you were fine, I used my skills of deduction to suss out your location,” Harold says. “I thought I’d come say hello.”

“Right,” John says. He watches Harold at last set the bouquet down and then turn away, carefully not looking at him, John notices.

“Now to water them,” Harold says. “I certainly didn’t haul them all this way to let them wilt.”

John doesn’t even know if he’s talking to him or to himself. He sighs and gets up to pad after Harold. The air in the apartment is cool against his wounds where some of them are weeping clear plasma.

“Harold,” he says from right behind him.

Harold turns around and at last looks directly at him. His face goes white and John is taken aback when his lower lip quivers the slightest bit. “Oh,” Harold says. His voice is a soft, choked whisper. “Oh, look at what he did to you. Even Frankenstein wasn’t this cruel to his monster.”

John lets the Frankenstein remark go, he knows what Harold means and he’s not being cruel, unintentionally or otherwise. He’s found himself thinking along a similar line since he first saw himself in a mirror.

He looks down as Harold rests his hands lightly on his arms then touches his chest with the barest whisper of his fingertips, lightly sketching around the cuts. His mouth is parted slightly in frowning shock as he carefully touches John, like he’s trying to erase the wounds. By the time he makes it to John’s lower ribs, eyes riveted to the bristling cuts as he goes, he’s barely breathing. John at last takes his hands in his and removes them, both to spare Harold and to keep himself from stepping in closer and wrapping his arms around him. He steps back, out of Harold’s reach and shakes his head.

“You can’t be here, Harold,” he says.

John remembers forgiving Harold and he meant it, but he also remembers telling himself that letting _this_ happen again was out of the question. And maybe that’s not what Harold is doing and he _knows_ he’s not after sex—that would be a joke right now anyway, even if they were both in the mood. The way he was touching him though, the carefulness and the _care_ had John wanting to wrap himself around Harold and hang on. He’s not been aware of how much he’s wanted _someone_ (Harold, it’s always Harold) to offer some modicum of comfort since it happened. But he can’t let _this_ happen.

Harold stares at him and purses his lips, eyes taking on a squinty, shrewd look. “I hardly think you’re in any kind of shape to toss me out on my ear, Mr. Reese,” he says. John glares back and Harold pulls a can of chicken noodle soup from his pocket. He shows it to him, shaking it slightly from side to side. “You still need someone to look after you and since I am the only one who knows where you live, the logical choice is me.”

John considers it for a moment, he could push the issue and probably could run Harold off if he tried hard enough. But. _But_ , he doesn’t really want to. He doesn’t want to be alone right now and Harold is the one he wants to be here with him.

Harold pulls the ring tab on the soup up and turns away to get a pot from the cabinet. Instead of telling him to leave again, John says, “What’s with the soup? I don’t have a cold, Harold.”

“I am aware of that, but soup is good for more than colds,” Harold says.

John grins at Harold’s strange little ideas and also thinks he’s just learned something else about Harold—soup is comfort food for him and so, naturally, he assumes it is for other people as well. It would never occur to him to just _ask_.

“I’m going to go bandage myself back up and get dressed,” John says. “You think you can handle the reheating on your own?”

Harold’s scoff and the withering look he turns to give him makes John laugh as he turns away to take care of his necessaries.

By the time he’s redressed his wounds—the ones on his shoulders aside, he can’t reach them and they’re not all that deep anyway, so he thinks they’ll be okay—and dressed in the loosest clothes he has, the soup is ready and waiting in a bowl for him. John’s a little surprised to find there isn’t a cup of hot cocoa to go with it. He smiles despite his still lingering misgivings about Harold being loose in his home and sits down to eat his soup. Harold’s watering the monstrous bouquet and humming to himself. John listens to him puttering around and only looks up when he takes the pitcher he appropriated for a watering can to the sink.

As Harold walks back by him, he pauses for a moment and runs his hand over John’s hair, stroking it and John sighs. He leans into the touch for a moment then pulls himself out of it—it would be _so easy_ to slip back into this and he can’t. He just _can’t_.

“Thanks for the soup, Harold,” he says as he stands up and makes a beeline for his bed. It’s time for another pill and the way he’s throbbing says it couldn’t have come sooner. “I think I’ll take a nap now.”

Harold watches him go and doesn’t protest or try to stop him. He can’t slap a Band-Aid on things and hope they’ll get better overnight. Slow and steady wins the race, he thinks. He _hopes_.

“I’ll be here when you wake up, John,” he says as he turns to go sit on the couch.

“Finch—” John starts and then stops with a sigh. He’s not fooling anyone, he’s not going to make Harold leave and he needs to just quit it before he embarrasses himself.

“Yes?” Finch says.

“Make yourself at home,” John says. Then he takes his pill and positions himself on his bed.

He watches Finch pull a thin paperback out of his inner coat pocket and open it. John can just barely make out the title— _Slaughterhouse Five_ —and then he closes his eyes to wait for the pill to take effect. Bear flops down on the bed beside him, his warmth along the length of John’s left leg almost as comforting a presence as Harold across the room. He has no doubt that Harold and Bear will be gone when he wakes again, but for now, he puts aside whatever misgivings he may have and lets himself enjoy it.

John wakes up again near dusk, hungry and in need of the restroom. The first thing he sees is Harold asleep on the sofa, head thrown back at a truly painful looking angle and his mouth open. He’s snoring softly and Bear is sitting on the floor, looking up at him quizzically.

“Huh,” John says.

He gets up from the bed and heads for the bathroom, reminding himself to check his bandages and change them if he’s bled through any. Halfway there, John stops and turns to look back at Harold and the dog. He grins at Bear when he looks around at him and listens to the greeting thump of his tail on the floor. Harold gives a particularly loud snore and shifts slightly on the sofa. When he moves, his book slides off his knee and to the floor and still, John can only stare at him because he can’t quite get over it.

Harold finally stayed.

**

…

**

**Author's Note:**

> The next installment in _The Human Element_ series is now up: [One More Second Chance](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1148200) by [Lustmordred](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lustmordred). Enjoy! :D


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